


bones of our chidhood

by cave_canem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Birthdays, Gen, also snow, and cold weather, it's not christmas/holidays themed BUt the twins' birthday is in november so it counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 19:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12967086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: November 4th isn't a good day in the Minyard household, but it doesn't mean that it has to stay that way.Aaron, Andrew, and slowly mending their relationship (and their birthday).





	bones of our chidhood

_November 2003_

November is a shit month. That isn’t only Aaron’s personal preferences talking, but also general consensus: November is a shit month because the days get shorter, the air gets colder, and it’s very difficult to be five feet even and still get respected when you’re bundled up in a scarf and a beanie.

It is also, right from the beginning, marked with fateful dates, such as Aaron’s birthday.

He used to think birthdays spent with mom where shit, too: sometimes she forgot, often she was high or drunk, and most of the time there was no cake if didn’t buy it himself. At least he’d always been able to scourge up money from her and his extended family: a twenty or two from mom’s purse, a check from the Hemmicks—jackpot.

Now, though, Aaron nearly misses the constant negligence and heavy presence of his intoxicated mother in the next room. At least there _would_ be a presence, and not simply the deep silence that characterizes Andrew.

It’s all very ironic, really, that when he gained a brother to share a birthday with, the day lost all of its meaning.

He cuts the water off and takes his time to get dressed, not wanting to confront what—who—is waiting for him in the living room. Andrew and Aaron are alone in the house, because Nicky left for the store: they all got tired of Chinese takeout and frozen pizza two weeks ago, but they also don’t really know how to cook a decent meal that’s more complicated that bacon and eggs. It’s been a long time since Aaron and his brother have been left truly alone in such a limited space: since he took them in and started to understand their dynamic, Nicky has been careful to surround them as much as possible.

It’s annoying, overbearing, and useless, but that’s Nicky for you, Aaron thinks as he towels his hair dry. He hears the door open and steps out of the bathroom to help, because Nicky is always annoying about managing the groceries alone.

“I don’t have four arms,” he announces as Aaron comes into the living room. “But you know who does?”

“No one,” Aaron answers, lifting one of the bags his cousin piled outside the door. He drags it inside and hurries to close the door, cutting off a cold burst of wind. “Did you get beer?”

“Who do you take me for?”

He’s putting away the eggs when Andrew pads in the kitchen, hands buried in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s quiet, as always, and his face betrays no emotion, as always, but Aaron can’t help but glance warily at his arms. Who knows what he has hidden under the thick fabric. Aaron has seen him produce knives from seemingly nowhere before he noticed the sheaths sewn in his armbands. Like spiders in his bathroom, Aaron likes to know where Andrew’s hands are at all times.

Andrew doesn’t help putting away the groceries: he barely glances at them before neatly sidestepping Aaron buried in the fridge and going straight for the coffee maker, pouring himself the rest of it in a mug.

“Hey, Andrew, a little help, yeah?” Nicky ask, elbow-deep in the last shopping bag, taking out enough rice and pasta to last them a month.

Aaron lets him, pretending to be occupied with the fridge’s door, because the pantry cupboard is too tall for either of the twins to reach comfortably. Despite his grin and his casual voice, Aaron knows that Nicky doesn’t really expect Andrew to react. They’ve both learned a long time ago that he does what he wants, and even then, barely. To both of their surprise, Andrew stills from where he’s rummaging in the silverware drawer, and drops his spoon next to his mug with a clang. Aaron stops, and can’t help but stare at him when Andrew makes his way to Nicky, actually looks inside the grocery bag, and tips it over to reach something inside. He takes out sugar and Aaron forces himself not to roll his eyes, while Nicky sighs deeply.

“Thanks, that’s really helpful,” he says, putting away the rest of the groceries while Andrew retreats to his mug, dumps an ungodly amount of sugar in his coffee, and leaves the room without a look over his shoulder.

“He’s insufferable,” Nicky complains when they’re done in the kitchen. “Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to a wall.”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to: he’s heard Nicky’s complaints more times than he cares to count. He would share it, too, if he cared. Which he doesn’t.

He makes to leave the room, resigned to a boring day inside watching his own brother not talk to him and avoiding Nicky’s repeated attempts at cheer, but Nicky snags his arm when he passes him.

“Hey, wait.”

“Nicky, don’t.”

“It’s your birthday—”

Aaron snorts. In the living room, Andrew turns the TV on, a little bit too loudly.

“I got you something,” Nicky says again.

“Both of us?” Aaron asks blandly, because he’s getting uncomfortable and pushing Nicky in a corner is the easiest way out.

“This stance on not celebrating any occasion is heresy,” Nicky claims. “Yes, both of you, you heathen.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Oh my God, Aaron, just—here. Happy birthday.”

Anyone else would have snapped: Nicky just looks sad, which is a little infuriating. Aaron doesn’t want pity, doesn’t want sympathy: he simply wants Nicky to stop looking at him like he sold his soul to the devil, because Aaron knows how his deal with Andrew looks, and he knows it’s not _like that_ , but he doesn’t know how else he can catch the attention of a brother who doesn’t care about anything or anyone.

Aaron takes the hastily wrapped present, a solid rectangle that’s just heavy enough that he knows it’s a book. The wrapping paper is bright red with Christmas baubles on it, because the holidays are more than a month and a half away but marketing swears it’s right around the corner; Aaron recognizes it as the one from the wrap-your-own stand at the store. He tears the paper carelessly but steadily, not wanting to show eagerness. He’s not eager; he’s indifferent.

It _is_ a book; specifically, the book that caught Aaron’s attention two weeks before and that he didn’t have enough money to buy at the time.

“Thanks,” he says stiffly, not knowing what to say. He thinks about the checks he used to get from the Hemmicks before the family situation worsened, and the dry conversations he’d have with his aunt over the phone afterwards.

“Yeah, well, you were looking at it the other day, so.”

“I wanted to borrow it at the library,” Aaron says, because Nicky’s attention isn’t something he knows how to deal with.

Nicky lets out a laugh and reaches out to ruffle his hair, despite Aaron’s scowl and his step backwards.

“Well now you won’t have to. Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

Nicky waves the plastic box he’s been hiding behind the leftover shopping bags. Aaron sees the colorful logo from the bakery at the mall, and sighs.

“Don’t actually say the words,” he says, thrusting a fork at his cousin.

“Nah, I’m not an idiot—,” _Debatable_ , Aaron’s mind supplies, “and I don’t really _have_ a death wish, you know? I’ll just tell him I got it for myself but I’m not hungry anymore.”

“That’s the stupidest excuse you’ve ever come up with.”

“Yeah? What do you suggest, then?”

“Nothing,” Aaron says truthfully. Nicky rolls his eyes, probably thinking it’s another manifestation of Minyard stubbornness and not a serious suggestion.

Aaron doesn’t fully understand how Andrew’s mind works, and can at best guess at his motivations, but he knows that if Nicky really wants his gift to be accepted, then it can’t be that: a _gift_. He should carelessly leave the cake on the counter and let Andrew find it on his own.

It’s too late to tell him that. Aaron takes his book and makes his way upstairs, passing the living room just when Nicky throws the box at Andrew with an instruction to “Think fast!”. Andrew lets the box flops down on the couch, predictably, and raises an eyebrow at Nicky until he leaves with a huff.

“Told you,” Aaron says as Nicky steps into his bedroom.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “If he doesn’t want it I’ll eat it for lunch.”

Aaron shrugs. If Nicky is stupid enough to think his little scheme would work just because he wanted it to and thought the day was “special”, then it’s his problem. He won’t lose energy to comfort an incorrigible optimist like him.

When he glances back into the living room, however, he can see Andrew reaching for the cake, forgotten at the other end of the sofa. He opens the box, peers inside it for a minute, and lifts his head to look straight at Aaron across the room. Andrew picks up the fork Nicky left on the coffee table and Aaron glances away, going back to thumbing through his new book.

* * *

 

_November 2007_

Fall is uncomfortably cold this year, and Aaron is silently cursing the weather, the country, the school, his team, and his professors, when he leaves the comforting warmth of the library for the relative comfort of his dorm. Junior year is even worse than sophomore, despite the lack of outside distractions in the form of mafia bosses and criminal hearing. Aaron is jaded enough to be able to mock the dramatic turn his second year at PSU took, but being buried under homework isn’t all that comfortable either.

He wants to go back to his dorm, take a long shower, collapse on his bed with Katelyn, and sleep for a decade. With two roommates, one of which is Nicky and the other always ready to invite half of the team in their dorm room, however, it seems slightly improbable.

They might want to do something for his birthday, too; Nicky has been advocating for going out for weeks. Aaron told him no half a dozen times, mainly because the day is awkward enough as it is. He doesn’t need to add to it a last-minute celebration with all the Foxes present, who, admittedly, he could live without.

Plus, it’s Sunday, they have a game on Friday, and Aaron is _tired_.

He takes the elevator to get to the third floor, even though he usually prefers the stairs, just so he can slump against the wall and rest his eyes. His laptop is weighing his bag and his eyes are burning from prolonged exposure to the screen. He squints at his reflexion in the mirror. Maybe he should get his eyes checked and get glasses. He wonders briefly if Andrew has ever needed a check-up, too. There’s the familiar jolt in his head, the one that follows any reminder that he’s not _alone_ —he’s half of a weirdly disconnected machinery, turning out of axis but still in arm’s reach of each other.

When the elevator dings open on the third floor, Andrew is standing in the doorway of his dorm, arms crossed and bored look on his face like it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to do. Two years ago—hell, maybe _one_ year ago—, Aaron would have been irritated but resigned that Andrew would show up in his way, like he’s always done. Now, he’s almost thinking of smirking at the thought of how long Andrew might have waited for him. He’s not as imposing when all Aaron can think of is that the bored look on his brother’s face might actually be real. He hasn’t texted anyone that he was leaving the library, except for Katelyn, because they have plans to go out for dinner, but there is no way in hell Andrew would have reached her to coordinate their movements.

Aaron stops, though, because he’s never been particularly good at ignoring Andrew.

“What,” he says, and it’s not really a question.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asks in the same tone.

“Some of us actually do our homework.” When he gets no reaction from his brother, though, Aaron opts for another method. “I’m heading out.”

“It’s barely past six. You have time.”

“Not really,” Aaron says because he does really want that long shower, but Andrew ignores him and retreats inside his dorm.

Aaron tries not to stare when he crosses the threshold after him, but as much as he tries, he can’t deny his curiosity. He hasn’t set foot in this room for months. He waits for the feeling of familiarity, but it doesn’t show up; instead, he nearly trips over the bean bags that have been moved ten inches backwards.

One of the major changes in the design of the room is the random Exy paraphernalia around the room: there’s Kevin’s laptop with this diverse Exy teams stickers, several sheets of notes and play designs, and, draped over the back of a chair, a bright orange of a Fox jersey with the number 10.

It takes some of his willpower not to scowl at it, but the knowledge that it must, at some point, have bothered Andrew as much as it does him—and not only because Aaron is a bit of a neat freak—helps smooth his expression.

Andrew points at him before leaving the room for the bedroom. Aaron takes the gesture as a sign to wait and makes his way to the window. He doesn’t really want to snoop, but he also knows that it’ll bug Josten if he does, so he makes sure to move his jersey and open the books thrown over one of the desks that Aaron recognizes as the striker’s. He stares at the long and tedious text in Spanish that sprawls over two pages, feeling more satisfied than ever that he took German in high school.

Andrew comes back from the bedroom silently, like he always does, but Aaron has developed like a sixth sense over the years to detect when his twin is in the room. He thinks it has something to do with the heavy weight of Andrew’s unpleasantness. Of course, Aaron carries some unpleasantness of his own, too. That’s probably the reason why Andrew has also always seemed to know when Aaron is around.

“Where are Kevin and Neil?” he asks when Andrew appears content to just stares out of the window.

“Court,” Andrew shrugs.

“Why did I ask,” Aaron mutters. “What do you want?”

“It’s the fourth.”

“Yeah.”

There’s no asking if Andrew is aware of the date. It’s Sunday, so he’s probably stayed inside most of the day and avoided Nicky’s unrepentant cheerfulness for their birthday, but there is no doubt he knows.

“What?” Aaron snaps after another silence. “Do you want me to wish you a happy birthday or something? Well, I’m not Nicky, so get on with it, I need to—”

He trails off as Andrew throws him a small package, hitting him square on the chest. With a small huff of surprise, Aaron catches it before it hits the ground, expertly judging its weight and the slight rattling sound it makes when Aaron lifts it to his face. There is no doubt that it’s a video game.

“Kevin and Neil will be at night practice tomorrow,” Andrew says, and then he turns away.

This time, it’s not an invitation to follow but a dismissal. Still, Aaron stays rooted in place for a few seconds, looking at the object—the gift—in his hands.

He doesn’t know what surprises him more: that Andrew acknowledged their shared birthday, that he bought him a present, or that he got it _wrapped_.

(Did he wrap it himself? For some reason, the question won’t leave his brain once it gets lodged there.)

“Andrew,” he starts, but Andrew cuts him off by lighting a cigarette, knowing perfectly well that Aaron can’t stand the smell.

“Go away,” he tells Aaron, eyes fixed on the gray patch of land that stretches behind Fox Tower. “She’s waiting.”

Aaron hasn’t told him about going out to diner with Katelyn at any point, but Andrew is far from stupid. The satisfaction this sentence, coupled with the gift, brings him is searing. He can see the result of those stressful hours spent on Dobson’s couch; he’s holding it in his hands.

“Happy birthday,” he says before leaving.

Andrew blows out a cloud of smoke and doesn’t answer. The door slowly clicks closed.

 

“What’s that?” Nicky asks when Aaron steps into their living room.

“Birthday present from Andrew,” he deadpans, and doesn’t wait for Nicky’s laugh.

“Yeah, sure. When’re you coming back tonight?”

“Who says I’m coming back?”

Nicky frowns.

“You haven’t even let me give you your gift all day because you holed yourself up in the library. It’s not healthy, Aaron, I hope you know that.”

“Add it to the pile,” Aaron says, shaking the still wrapped package over his shoulder. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“What pile? Wait, you’re not joking? Did Andrew seriously—?”

Aaron closes the bathroom door on his cousin’s questions. He hasn’t even dropped his bag in the bedroom, but he can’t bring himself to care. He cuts through the duct tape with his thumbnail and tries to repress his nerves when he has to tear the paper over a particularly sticking bit of tape.

It’s a video game, like he guessed. He’s a bit surprised that Andrew knew to buy it, because they haven’t played together since the holidays ended. He forces himself to get up and hop in the shower before he runs out of time. When Katelyn texts him she’s waiting outside the Tower, Aaron’s ready and already making his way out of the suite.

“I’m going,” he says to Nicky in passing.

He doesn’t wait for the answer, slamming the door on his way out and all but running down the corridor before he can chicken out. He hooks the bag with the black sweater he bought three weeks ago around the doorknob and pounds once, sure that Andrew will investigate the noise.

He doesn’t need to be there when he opens his gift, because they both have had their share of awkward acknowledgement of their relationship for the night. But Aaron can still feel the smooth texture of the wrapping paper under his fingers, and that’s enough for now.

It’ll take time. It can afford to: they still have years before them.

* * *

 

_Novembre 2010_

Leaving PSU feels weird to Aaron, in a way he doesn’t really want to acknowledge. He’s more than happy with the way his life outside college starts: with Katelyn, med school, and a future without the stifling forced closeness of his family. Moving to Charleston would be like a milestone, if Aaron believed in this kind of things. He doesn’t, though, so it just feels like it always does when he has to find his footing back and relearn a routine.

November 4th finds Aaron unsettled when he never thought he’d be. Andrew and he have developed a good routine, over the years at PSU, which goes roughly like this: they don’t talk about it, they let Nicky run his mouth until Andrew thinks enough is enough and cuts him off, they exchange presents, they don’t talk about it, and then each of them retreats with his significant other for the evening, and they _don’t talk about it_.

Now the entire thing is shaken upside down by the fact that they don’t live in close proximity to each other anymore. Andrew is all the way up in Massachusetts, Aaron in Charleston; they don’t have the comfort of pretending not to care anymore. It means that they’ll have to actively make the effort, this year, instead of seizing the opportunity of living two dorms apart.

It’s frightening, because after three years and a half of Wednesdays afternoons spent on Dobson’s couch, Aaron doesn’t know if any of them _will_.

He mailed Andrew his present two days ago before he could think it over too much and change his mind. Katelyn proposed to come with him, but Aaron refused; it’s something he needs to do on this own, failure or victory.

He’s spent the last two days wondering, tossing and turning, alternating between patting himself on the back for taking a step in the right direction and cursing himself for opening himself up once again. He doesn’t want his attempt to fail and his relationship with Andrew to take a step back, but who knows with his life?

He feels twelve again, jittery and undecided about this news of a brother, and soon filled with bitter disappointment.

Morning comes and passes: he gets birthday wishes from acquaintances and the few tentative friends he’s made. He reads and answers with one text to the Foxes’ wishes on the group chat. Nicky calls around noon, sounding sleepy but excited that Aaron picked up immediately (Aaron was holding his phone; picking up was a reflex, unfortunately), more effusive than ever now that Aaron isn’t exactly equal with Andrew’s indifference anymore. He’d told Aaron all about the presents Erik and him had sent him from Germany (because Nicky was back in Germany, living the life and happier than he’d ever seemed to be in South Carolina, and Aaron wants not to care but can’t, not really): clothes (he suspects a scarf, because it’s chiller in Charleston that at Palmetto), souvenirs, books, even food.

“It’s a care package more than a birthday present,” Erik had joked in the background in barely accented English, and Nicky had flailed a bit, because he knows just how much the Minyard react to direct concern.

The package hasn’t arrived yet, for the same reasons Nicky spent his time complaining about the entire time her was in South Carolina and doing long distance with Erik. Aaron doesn’t mind: it takes his mind off things not to deal with the physical proofs of his cousin’s attention.

It’s too much even on a good day, he used to think.

On Thursdays, he always comes home before Katelyn, so he takes advantage of the lack of witnesses to sprawl on the couch with his phone in hand. He tells himself that he’s not waiting for Andrew to make contact until six, when he _knows_ Andrew is out of practice. Then, annoyed by the time he’s wasted and the idea that he might have payed for a present _and_ shipping fees for nothing, he quickly opens his messages.

He knows Andrew probably won’t answer a direct phone call, because pointing out any of Andrew’s habits or likings is the best way to see him squash them, but he can send a text. A text is easier to ignore and forget, and maybe less rash of a dismissal for Aaron, too. He doesn’t think he can endure the mechanical voice of Andrew’s answering machine.

_Look in the mail_ , he sends first. Then, after an hesitation: _HBD_

He puts down his phone so he can’t see the lack of notification and opens his textbook, ready to catch up on the hour he’s wasted, before Katelyn and he go out for drinks with their new friends. He doesn’t get far into his required reading before his phone goes off: maybe he should have muted the notifications if he really wanted to focus. He didn’t want to, though, if he’s being honest with himself.

He picks up his phone and breathes when he sees Andrew’s name on the screen, and not Katelyn’s or anyone else’s. His messages reads: _Take your own advice_.

Aaron doesn’t get up but he can breathe a little more easily, relieved and a little impressed they managed to build something akin to a _tradition_. His thirteen-year-old self wouldn’t have believed it; the twenty-third-year-old man he is now still doesn’t fully. His thumb hovers over the screen, not knowing how to answer the text, when his phone buzzes again, and, to his astonishment, a picture loads.

He didn’t even know Andrew’s crappy phone could _take_ pictures. Maybe he’s changed it.

It’s taken with no care for lighting or framing, but the focus is on the two boxes set on the huge freezers they have in grocery stores. The left one is a box of Funfetti cake mix, the other one an ice cream sandwich labelled for four servings. The caption reads: _which one_.

The lack of expressive punctuation is so typically Andrew that Aaron rolls his eyes.

_Neither_ , he sends back, knowing it’ll rile his twin up.

He gets no answer for almost five minutes, then Andrew sends him a second picture, this time of the two boxes on a conveyor belt, next to a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. Andrew is predictable, down to his contrariness.

_I’ll tell Kevin_ , Aaron sends.

There’s nothing for a minute straight, during which Aaron supposes Andrew pays for his groceries. It’s a bit thrilling to know him like that, even when they’re miles away: Aaron has never understood the appeal of instant communication better than in that instant.

_Good_ , Andrew answers finally.

Aaron won’t tell, of course: for one, he has no interest in speaking to Kevin outside of group events. And Andrew, despite his childish sweet tooth and his manichean view of the world, is an adult with the full capacity of choosing which poison will destroy him first.

Aaron is pretty sure his body simply wasn’t wired to recognize sickness or diabetes, because Abby’s frequent check-ups have only uncovered that Andrew is in perfect health, despite the smoking, drinking, and sugar intake. It used to make Kevin go crazy when they were all playing for PSU; Aaron is just jealous, because he always gets forced to bed by an annual bout of flu at the end of winter.

The conversation dies after that, but Aaron doesn’t mind, because now he actually _has_ a conversation with Andrew in his phone, one he can scroll up and down at will and see the proof that they’re on their way to _something_.

He can’t focus back on his required reading anymore after that, and takes to pacing the small living room until he hears the key in the lock announcing Katelyn’s presence.

“Hey,” she calls from the hallway, “you got a package in the mail!”

She doesn’t say from who it is. Caution or negligence, Aaron can’t tell, but he still takes the package from her directly after greeting her. The stamp is from Boston; the sender’s address the same that he scrawled on his own parcel two days before.

“Is it a birthday present?” she asks as she shrugs off her coat.

“It’s from Andrew.”

He hears her freeze while she’s taking off her boots, then the small thud of her heel hitting the floor when she drops them.

“Oh,” she says. “Do you want to open it together?”

Aaron hesitates. They need to go soon if they want to meet their friends at the new sushi place downtown that they’ve been meaning to try for several weeks.

“Later,” he decides finally, putting the package away on their bed. “I’ll need something to take my mind off all that socializing.”

Katelyn nods and changes quickly, forces Aaron in a better shirt, and off they are, braving the evening wind to meet their new life. He manages not to check his phone for the whole evening; it’s only when he’s brushing his teeth that he remembers the first text he sent to Andrew and gets the idea that he might have opened his gift already.

He does have a text from Andrew. It’s a picture once again: Andrew, holding up a plate with a piece of both cakes, balanced on his extended legs. In the background, covering his feet and shins, is the dark blue throw blanket Aaron sent him to fend off the harsh Bostonian winter.

“You’ll need scissors for all that duct tape,” Katelyn calls from the bedroom.

* * *

 

_November 2025_

Aging isn’t a thing Aaron Minyard thought about a lot when he was young and still living his formative years. The future had been a part of all his dreams, of course: at first it had been _when_ : when I’m old enough, when I have money, when I leave this house, this life, this family, but then it had evolved into _if_ , and that was when his vision had reduced and the future had loomed closer: not months and years, but weeks and days.

At fifteen, he wasn’t sure he’d make it past twenty-seven years old, like a ridiculously unknown member of the club. At sixteen, locked away in the bathroom while his body and his mind broke at the same time, he hadn’t been able to see past the immediate pain.

Now, he’s nearly thirty-nine, married, and a professional neurosurgeon in Chicago, in the cold and wind and snow he never knew he liked. It’s different from California and South Carolina, and the first winter in Illinois had been an adjustment. Now, though, after living there nearly fifteen years, he can safely say that winter in Denver isn’t that different from what he’s used to. Sure, there’s more snow—a lot more snow—but Aaron simply puts on his boots and shrugs on a parka.

Katelyn would have liked Denver, he’s sure: she has a thing for cold weather and snow, which always fills her with a youthful energy. He snaps a photo of the snow covered street to send her when she wakes up after her late shift.

The railing of the fire escape is cold under his bare hands when he leans against it. Andrew and Neil’s apartment is in an usually busy part of the city (God knows neither of them is the suburbs type), but at five am on a cold Tuesday, it’s still buried under a heavy blanket of snow and quiet. A car makes its way down the road slowly, and Aaron spares a thought for Andrew’s newest pretentious car. He got it last month, probably as an early birthday present to himself—though he would never admit it, but Aaron’s gotten good at reading his silences and seemingly rash actions—and it hasn’t been driven on snow yet. He knows because Andrew texted him a picture of the Jaguar the day he got it, and Aaron asked about it, even if he doesn’t care about cars the way Andrew does.

It’s still a bit weird for him to think that Andrew can _care_ about anything, especially something as trivial as cars. They’re turning thirty-nine in exactly seventeen minutes, but there’s still so much of each other they need to discover, compare, and file away in separate boxes.

The door to the fire escape slides open behind him. Aaron doesn’t turn; he knows who it is, the same way he knows his own name or how he feels.

Andrew settles on his right, leaning back on the railing with an unlit cigarette and the leather jacket Nicky got him two years ago. A movement at the corner of his eyes draws Aaron’s gaze from his twin to the _thing_ that cowers nears the door.

“What is _that_?” Aaron asks.

“A cat,” is the answer, muttered around the cigarette hanging between Andrew’s lips.

“That’s not cat.”

“It’s a small cat. Didn’t you go to med school? Surely they taught you about the cycle of life.”

“It’s a kitten,” Aaron says. “You have a kitten.”

“Congratulations,” Andrew drawls. “You’ve learned a new word.”

The kitten extends a paw and tentatively pokes the snow in front of itself, shirking back when it feels wetness.

“What’s it doing?”

“It’s her first snow,” Andrew shrugs. “I’m lighting up,” he warns.

Aaron waves a hand at Andrew when he flicks his lighter on; if he hated cold has much as Andrew does, he too would take any opportunity to get warm. The wind blows the smoke away anyway.

“I didn’t know you had a new cat,” Aaron remarks as the kitten ventures off the doorstep it was huddled on.

“Neil got her last week.”

Oh, so it’s already a _she_. It’s interesting: Andrew took nearly a year to warm up to Sir, the first cat Neil rescued from a trash can (apparently, Andrew still has a thing for taking in strays). Warming up, for Andrew, meant stop calling it _stupid_ , or _cat one_ ; when Aaron and Katelyn visited fourteen months after the first cat’s arrival, Andrew still wouldn’t accept him or King in his lap.

If Aaron didn’t know better, he’d say Andrew’s gotten mellow.

“Where’d find it?”

“Under the car. Five weeks old,” he adds, reading the question in Aaron’s mind before he can ask it.

Aaron makes a noise and they watch the little fluff ball makes her way across the inch of snow that covers the balcony. Emboldened after the first step, she quickly explores around her, shaking the snow from her paws every few steps. Andrew moves next to Aaron, and the kitten automatically veers toward him, curling up on his boot.

Aaron raises an eyebrow but Andrew doesn’t react, flicking his ash over the railing. It falls slowly toward the ground, like grey snow.

“What’s her name?”

“The Great Mouseketeer. From Nicky’s last name list.”

Aaron stares. He knows that, technically, he’s had proof of Andrew’s love and dedication for Neil years before: when they got into long distance after Andrew graduated from PSU, when they signed up on the same team, when they rented, then bought, an apartment together, when Andrew let Neil rope him into flying to Nicky and Erik’s for Christmas three times over the last two decades. But staring at that small at that small cat curled up on his brother’s boot feels weirdly like the first time he’s realized it.

He looks away and his gaze catches on the big red numbers of a digital clock, set up over the price board of the gas station down the road.

“Hey,” he says, dragging his eyes back to Andrew to find him already watching him. “Happy birthday.”

They’re now officially older than their mother ever was. There is something both frightening and exhilarating in this fact: unknown father aside, it’s the oldest a Minyard’s ever been. It’s a quiet victory, laced with a hint of grief, but Aaron likes it that way: it wouldn’t feel like a true achievement if it was taken for granted.

Andrew doesn’t acknowledge his words verbally, but he doesn’t leave or dismiss them either, so Aaron knows he accepts them.

“You know,” he begins, burrowing his hands in his pockets, “you’re the oldest. So technically you turned thirty-nine twenty-five minutes ago.”

“Really.”

Andrew’s tone is flat, but Aaron knows he didn’t know that. It’s fitting, despite their names, that Andrew come first; he certainly has the protectiveness of an older brother.

His fingers brush the small package he’s kept in his coat pocket since he landed in Denver yesterday. It’s become usual for them to exchange gifts for their birthday and even Christmas. It doesn’t completely erase the curl, deep in his stomach, of fear of rejection: will Andrew accept this time? Like it? It’s not exactly like walking on hot coals anymore; it’s more like a tightrope or a beam: something he can safely do after years of training and with the ties of family as a balancing pole.

He takes out the box and hands it at Andrew, satisfied with steadiness of his hand. After a beat or two, he feels Andrew pick it up. He lowers his arm and puts his hand back on the railing, still slightly extended toward his brother.

The paper rustles as Andrew tears it up, without care or haste, in a very Andrew fashion: efficient and straight to the point. It makes Aaron wonder how Andrew as child would open presents, if he ever got any.

Aaron sees him open the box and take in the glow of the watch sitting inside from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Andrew, but he slips it on his left wrist after a moment, so Aaron counts it as another victory. This one sits low in his stomach and warms him more efficiently than his fleece-lined jacket.

Andrew stubs out his cigarette in a nearby empty flowerpot and picks up Mouseketeer from his foot. There are two little paw imprints on the leather where the cat rested her weight.

“Come inside,” Andrew says, setting the little animal on his shoulder, like it’s a perfectly thing for Andrew Minyard to do. “Neil’s left for his run by now.”

Aaron makes a face.

“It’s six am.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your boyfriend is crazy,” he says, closing the door behind them.

Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to say it so casually; but by now it’s a fact: Andrew Minyard, Exy goalie extraordinaire, lives with his boyfriend of nineteen years.

“Husband,” Andrew corrects tonelessly as he crosses the living room. “We got married nine years ago.”

Aaron takes a deep breath. It’s going to be a long three days, if Andrew keeps on springing these kinds of surprise on him.

“Okay,” he says to himself as the old King weaves between his feet, purring loudly. “Married, sure. Why not?”

Why not indeed.

Andrew comes back and stops on the threshold of the bedroom, holding a large rectangle package, head slightly bent on the side to make place for Mouseketeer on his shoulder.

Aaron smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I look up sport winter cars because those dumb boys go live in Colorado but that doesn't mean that Andrew will sacrifice his Aesthetic? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> The Great Mouseketeer is one of the names Nicky proposed for the (first two) cats, that got overruled by King Fluffkins, apparently. Nora wrote it in the extra content about the cats. And you know [that picture of that guy's Doc Martens with two tiny wet paws on it](http://jsteneil.tumblr.com/post/179658163848/pochowek-carudamon119-%E3%81%AD%E3%81%93-shimamike0814)? Yeah. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [jsteneil](http://jsteneil.tumblr.com).


End file.
